


Pride

by Lamport



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season 3/4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamport/pseuds/Lamport
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weeks ago she wouldn’t have been able to place the body language she’s seen so rarely from him, but now she recognizes it for what it is.  He’s proud of himself – and pride looks good on Daryl Dixon.</p>
<p>A stormy run turns steamy for Caryl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to NotLaura for helping me brainstorm and for shooting down my more Nyquil inspired ideas. Written for the smut challenge at Nine Lives.

Since their arrival at the prison the former residents of Woodbury have been a mixed blessing.  They are skilled people; trained nurses, a teacher, even a dental hygienist.  Unfortunately, most of them retired from their professions at least fifteen years ago, and are more in need of assistance than capable of giving it.  

Carol doesn’t blame Rick for taking them on – they have a lot of wisdom to impart and would surely die on their own – but her pragmatism can’t overlook the fact that they have a whole set of needs that are very difficult to meet.  At the same time their dependence on her gives her a renewed sense of purpose, one she’d all but lost since Sophia died.  When pressed to do so she finds herself capable of leading.  It’s surprising, but seemingly only to her.

Ever since Rick took up farming the day-to-day logistics of living in a prison, with fifteen members over sixty and another twelve under thirteen, falls to her.  Her days are filled with lists and schedules, passing out food to nourish the sick and healthy, setting bones and suturing gashes, taking out walkers on the fences, directing construction on common areas, resolving petty disputes, caring for Judith, keeping an eye on Carl, and on and on.  And even though she falls into bed each night utterly spent she can’t deny that she has somehow stopped being a burden – that she is  content .                  

She stares up at the stripped mattress above her bunk at night and lets it settle.  She feels something, just the twinge of it building somewhere inside.  It’s so foreign to her it takes a long time to name.  It feels almost like pride.  

Carol thinks her pride is a secret, but odd things start to happen.  The others listen when she speaks at the Council.  They really  listen .  It’s not just Daryl anymore.  They have faith in her and her judgment, and it makes her feel lighter than she has in years.  

 

* * *

For a long time her growing sense of pride is enough to fill her heart and keep her warm at night, but that all changes one night before dinner.

It’s an unremarkable evening that turns spectacular when Daryl emerges from the tree line beyond the fence dragging a fat buck behind him on a makeshift litter.  She’s just taking the laundry off the line, Mr. Turner’s underwear and some of Judith’s onesies, when she spots him.  Sweat glints off the straining muscles of his arms and collarbone in the waning daylight.  Before she knows that she’s speaking she’s directing Patrick and Carl to go help bring the deer in, but she can’t take her eyes off him.  He’s breathing hard, and suddenly so is she.   

It’s just Daryl , she tries to reason, but she can’t help the current that sparks through her when he meets her eyes across the yard and juts out his chin towards her.  He smirks, a little smugly.  Back straight and standing tall.  Weeks ago she wouldn’t have been able to place the body language she’s seen so rarely from him, but now she recognizes it for what it is.  He’s proud of himself – and pride looks  good on Daryl Dixon.  He carries himself so differently now, and she can’t help but notice.  

That night she has a sex dream with him that’s so vivid she can’t look him in the eye for a few days.  It serves as a reminder that as old as she may feel at times, she’s not dead yet.  She may not have the fresh face of one of the Greene sisters, but she’s not as wrinkled and arthritic as Mrs. Kozak either.  

 

* * *

Carol finds herself caring more about her clothes than she did as a teenager.  She likes things practical and functional, but starts gravitating towards colours.  She likes wearing blue – catches her reflection in the mirror in Beth’s room and likes what she sees.   And if she just happens to wear the colour that compliments her eyes when she takes Daryl his dinner on watch? Well, that’s just a coincidence.   

She tries to imagine how he’d respond if she propositioned him – for real this time.  Or if she just kissed him – took his hand and lead him to her cell one night.  During the day the idea seems preposterous (she’s always been a realist – knows he would balk and run away, and she’d probably be too tired to do anything anyway), but at night? At night it’s all she can think about.  His eyes.  His smile.  In the dark everything seems deliciously possible. 

 

* * *

A Council meeting brings up their need for specialty supplies for the older members of their community.  Hershel’s rubber crutch tips have worn down to nothing, and Mr. Turner needs a new tensor bandage.  There’s a strip mall just off the main highway a few hours away that Michonne knows about.  She tells them everything she remembers.

“It’s full of nursing home stuff.  Bed pans, crutches, wheelchairs - that kind of thing.”

Her eyes flick to Hershel, almost apologetically.  He nods.

“How long ago were you there?”

“Last winter.  Can’t see too many folks raiding the place in the meantime.  It’s worth a look.”

Carol has to agree.  There are so few elderly people around these days it’s unlikely that anyone would have cleaned out a specialty store like this one.

“One problem - it’s gonna be hard to get to.  There are so many cars and trucks parked on the road, you pretty much have to go in on foot.”

“Or bike,” Daryl grunts from a seat by the door.  He’s so quiet she hadn’t noticed him come in.  She runs a hand through her hair.

“Yeah, that works.”

“Son, you know what it is you’re looking for?” Hershel asks.

Once upon a time Daryl would have bristled at the insinuation that he might not know something, but so much has changed.  He shakes his head, and turns to look at her.

“Nah, but Carol probably does.”

Part of her basks in the implications of his suggestion - the quiet way he defers to her, and the prospect of spending time with him  alone  for the first time in close to a year - but another more practical part is already rejigging the cooking schedule for tomorrow and mentally listing the things they’ll need to pick up.

“We can go tomorrow, after the breakfast shift,” she says, struggling to hide the excitement she suddenly feels.  The others nod and move on to new business.

“Alright,” Daryl says.  

He doesn’t stay for the rest of the meeting.

 

* * *

Carol had forgotten how enjoyable riding with Daryl could be.  When they weren’t running for their lives, spending a morning on the back of the bike was thrilling.  She knows it’s more than the noise and the speed of the  motorcycle that gets her heart pounding, it’s the solid warmth of the man in front of her.  They haven’t been this physically close on a run in a long time, but he doesn’t feel nearly close enough.

Daryl is observant.  If he has any clue how hot and bothered she’s getting just from being near him she’s positive she’ll die.  In the hopes of maintaining some sense of composure, and not being quite so damn obvious, she concentrates on maintaining an invisible buffer between their bodies.  It’s dangerous touching him - it only makes her want more.  But no matter how hard she tries, the gap keeps closing.  Her thighs brush against his hips.  The rag in his back pocket flaps across her lap.  He shifts closer when they’re jostled by a bump on the road.

Necessity means she has to hang on to  something , so she rests her hands on his shoulders and does her best to ignore how broad they are; the way scent of tobacco and leather linger on her fingers long after they’ve found the strip mall, and the ride is sadly over. Every single aspect of their hour-long trip - all of it turns her on.       

It’s just Daryl , she repeats to herself as he offers her a hand off the bike.

 

* * *

They find the store immediately and do a quick sweep.  Daryl goes first, gesturing silently with his hands and eyes.  The ride has made her hyper sensitive to his presence.  There is no panic or confusion, just perfect synchronicity when a walker emerges from one of the aisles.  He knocks it to the ground and she has her knife in its eye socket in less than a heartbeat.  She wipes off the blade and they keep walking.    

Like Michonne predicted, the place is practically untouched.  They scan the full shelves, chucking items in her backpack as they go.  She finds a  box containing a hemorrhoid pillow and giggles, tossing it to him.

“Happy birthday!”

He laughs, shoulders bobbing slightly. 

“You shouldn’t have.”

Her breath catches when he brushes past her, eyes scanning the shelf in front of them.  His chest connects with her shoulder blade for a split second, and she feels it in her stomach.  

It’s just Daryl.

“Bingo,” he says, holding up a bag of rubber crutch tips.  She checks her list and the package in his hands, nodding to confirm that these are the right ones.  He stands a little straighter.  And there it is again.  The easy pride.

“Is that some kind of old person joke?” 

He smirks, and ducks down to check the bottom shelf.  If she doesn’t move away from him, she’ll kiss him right in the corner of his mouth where his lips quirk, and she won’t stop.

“I’m gonna go check out the electric scooters - see if they have any batteries worth saving,” she says to his back, retreating hastily to the front of the store.

She sits heavily on a recliner covered in plastic with remotes attached to the arm and takes three deep breaths. Her heart is beating erratically, and she can feel the wetness between her legs, the way the seam of her pants rubs up against her isn’t helping.  She can’t decide if she wants to be back in her bunk at the prison or stay here with Daryl and never return.     

The sound of distant thunder shakes her from her thoughts.  

Daryl emerges from the aisles a minute later with the backpack full to the brim.  He takes a cursory glance out the window and mutters something.

“What is it?”

“Storm coming in fast.  Blew up outta nowhere - looks like it’s gonna be a bad one too.”

“We should get out of here then.”  She grabs the bag from his hands and hoists it over her shoulders.

They make their way outside, but before they can make it to the bike the sky darkens and it starts to rain.  

“C’mon,” Daryl shouts over the downpour. 

 

* * *

He leads them down to the far end of the strip mall to a heavy wooden door that gives easily when they pull it open.  It’s dim inside, but quiet.  No sign of walkers.  When her eyes adjust, she sees the neon signs and mirrors on the walls covered in beer logos, feels the floor sticky under her feet.  He’s taken them to a dive bar.

Before she can drop her pack, he’s already locking the door behind them and scouting out the back rooms.  Daryl hops over the bar and digs around, tossing her a towel that is musty but dry.  She uses it to dry off the drops of cold water clinging to her arms and dripping down her neck.  Why had she worn a tank top today?   You  know  why , she tuts, blushing.   

“Gonna have to wait it out,” Daryl says, leaning his elbows on the bar, looking around the room.  She tries to ignore the picture he makes in the semi-darkness, towel hanging around his neck, wet hair and lean body.  It’s going to be a  long afternoon.

Carol busies herself by taking a tour of the place, peering at the photos on the walls of patrons and a bald man who she presumes was the owner.  He reminds her of Mr. Turner and suddenly she’s worrying about how  things are going back at the prison.  She’s due to take watch at four o’clock, but if the storm doesn’t pass soon, that won’t happen.

On a table beneath a beat up dart board are a stack of ashtrays and a bunch of candles in shot glasses.  She lights one and continues her walk.  Around the corner is a compact pool room complete with the most pristine pool table she’s ever seen.  _That could kill some time_ , she notes.  


 

* * *

When she makes her way back to Daryl he’s torn the bar apart.  The counter is covered with glassware and an assortment of bottles.  

“Wanna drink?”

She laughs.  It’s a dumb idea, drinking outside the safety of the fences, but what else have they got to do?  She sets the candle on the bar and hops up on a stool facing him.

“Sure.”

“What’ll it be?”

“What are my options?”

Daryl huffs out a low pitched laugh.  She feels it pulse down her spine and squeezes her legs together.

“Well, we got a half bottle of some kinda fruity melon shit,” he pushes it towards her to examine in the light of the candle.  “A bit of Southern Comfort - but looks like the flies got to it.”  

“No thanks.”

“Hang on.  Haven’t checked everywhere yet.”

He turns from her and bends over to rifle through a low shelf.  She takes the opportunity to shamelessly admire him - the perfect slight curve of his backside, the indent at the base of his spine that’s revealed when his shirt and vest ride up, his narrow hips in dangerous contrast to the width of his shoulders when he straightens up.      

“Saved the best for last,” he says, plunking a single dusty bottle of Budweiser between them.  “You want it?”  He tries to keep his tone neutral, but she can see by the way he’s eyeing it up that he’s wanted a beer for a long long time. 

“You have it.  I’ll take the melon stuff.”

But he doesn’t let her off the hook.  It dawns on her that unlike every man she’s ever known, he’ll never take something she wants.  He’ll never deprive her of a simple pleasure, no matter how small or silly. He repeats himself, slowly.  

“You  want it ?”

He stares at her, eyebrows raised, and words tumble from her lips in an embarrassing rush. 

“Yes, I want it.”

He pushes the beer towards her and she shakes her head, face burning.  She’s not satisfied with this arrangement.  She can’t sit on this bar stool a second longer, face-to-face with him.  

It’s just Daryl .

“How about we play for it?” she blurts.

He follows her glance over to the dartboard and shrugs.

“Alright.”

 

* * *

Carol breathes easier once they begin to play.  They are both comically terrible at Darts, but she is clearly the worse of the two.  Daryl’s throw is all arm, like he’s throwing a knuckleball instead of a dart.  His aim is much better than hers though.  Her darts end up bouncing off the wall more often than the sink in the bullseye, even after Daryl lets her throw two strides closer than him to the board.   

He keeps score on a small  chalkboard, tallying up their points with his tongue between his lips and one hand on his hip.  He looks  happy \- like he’s in his element here.  For the first time she wonders how much time he spent in places like this before the turn.  

“Looks like I win,” he says, turning to face her with an apology on his face.

She picks up the bottles from the bar and hands him his prize.  He fingers the neck reluctantly. 

“You sure you don’t want it?”

“It’s all yours.”

He takes the bottle and twists the cap against his forearm in a manner that’s clearly a ritual from his former life.  It  makes a hissing sound so nostalgic they both smile when they hear it.  She unscrews the cap off the liqueur and clinks their bottles together.

“Cheers.”

The liquor is sickeningly sweet, but burns on the way down.  Daryl takes a swig of beer and gulps loudly.

“Good?” she asks.  Watching him is ten times better than drinking it herself.

“Tastes like piss,” he says, letting out a contented sigh and raising the bottle to his lips again.

They play two more games, drinking and teasing.  It’s the best date she’s never been on.

 

* * *

The alcohol is a bad idea.  It starts loosening her tongue.

“I want to wear your vest,” she says.

Daryl pauses, lighter lifted halfway to the cigarette dangling from his mouth.  He raises an eyebrow.  It takes a good minute before he responds to her, finally taking a drag from his smoke and exhaling into the dim light.  They’ve had to light half a dozen more candles just to continue playing.

“You beat me, and you can wear it all the way back to the prison,” he declares, his voice coming out in a smoky rumble.  She tries not to shiver.

“Okay, but I don’t want to play darts for it.  Let’s play pool.”

He nods, and they set to work transporting all the candles to the back corner where the pool table sits.  The mirrors on the wall reflect their light, and suddenly the tacky bar looks like something soft and pretty.  Carol takes another drink and tries to ignore the urge to back him up against the wall.

“So what do I get if  I  win?” he asks, passing her a pool cue from the rack on the wall.

“Whatever you want.”

She doesn’t mean for it to come out like such a blatant invitation, but it does anyway.  The awkward silence is only broken by the boom of thunder outside.  Embarrassed she leans over the table, retrieving the balls from the pockets and setting up the game.  

Daryl stands to one side, and a quick glance at the mirror on the wall reveals that he’s watching her.  More specifically he’s staring at her ass.   It’s just Daryl , she tries to repeat, but her body is throbbing.  

 

* * *

The game goes on, but unlike the games of darts, neither one of them is talking or laughing.  Daryl calculates the angles of each shot, takes slow easy inhales and exhales before he thrusts the cue forward to connect with the ball.  He’s good - but not as good as Carol.  She played a lot in college, schooling dumb frat boys, until she met Ed and dropped out.  Daryl misses on his striped 13 and stands back with his hands tucked under his armpits waiting for her to take her turn.

He scoffs when she lines up her last shot - a seemingly impossible bank shot that will end the game, but she’s the one smiling when the 8 ball sinks perfectly in the corner pocket with a satisfying clunk.  She slinks over to him, reaching past him to the bar where her bottle rests.  His mouth is all but hanging open, so she brazenly plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a drag of her own.  It burns her throat and makes her want to cough but the dark look on Daryl’s face is worth it.

“I win,” she whispers.  The air between them feels thick and hazy. 

It’s just Daryl , a fuzzy voice repeats in her head half-heartedly,  what the hell has gotten into you?  But being here with him, alone in this bar, he’s not  just Daryl anymore.  He hasn’t been for a long time.  He’s  Daryl - the man who tried to save her girl.  The man who protects her.  The man who feeds her.  The man who blushes when she smiles.  The undeniably _attractive_ man she desperately wants to fuck. Now.

He starts to shrug out of his vest, but he’s not nearly fast enough, not nearly undressed enough.  She tosses the cigarette to the floor and reaches for his chest, blinded by lust she can’t tamp down any longer.  She doesn’t recognize herself and it’s a little scary. 

“Wait.”

It comes out like a grunt.  She falters, loosening her grip on the leather bunched in her fists, suddenly mortified that she’s pushing him.  Maybe he wants this, someday, but clearly not today.  She tries to duck away, looking down at the buttons on his shirt, but his hand grasps awkwardly at her elbows and he clears his throat.

“Double or nothing?”

She can’t be hearing him right.   Her eyes begin to sting with panicked tears.

“What?”

When she finds the courage to look up, she finds him regarding her calmly.  His eyes don’t leave hers when he says it again.

“Double or nothing.  I break.  Alright?”

She nods and takes a shaky step back while he racks up the balls for another game.  Like always, he’s being so kind - probably chalking up her crazy behaviour to the alcohol.  Ignoring the tension in the room and doing his best to move forward.  She takes another sip of the liqueur, willing the floorboards to open up and swallow her.  

“You still haven’t told me what you win if I lose.”

He hands her her cue, and takes the bottle from her, taking a quick swig.  He’s sloppy.  Sticky liquor splashes over the lip, and he licks it clean, eyeing her.  His voice is low and rough when he speaks, but she can’t make out what he’s saying, still stuck on the image of his tongue circling the same spot her lips had been.  Her stomach twists.  If he doesn’t want her, what is he doing?

The storm outside rages on, buffeting the far windows with sheets of rain, and muffling the crack of the cue when Daryl breaks.  He sinks three balls, all stripes, and circles the table to plan his next move.  It’s clear from the next two balls he pockets that he’s not playing around.  He wants to win.  When he finally fails to make a shot he actually curses under his breath.

There are only two striped balls left on the table to her seven.  Daryl peels the label off his empty beer, waiting for her to shoot.  He seems withdrawn, pride replaced with edgy insecurity, and it makes her heart break.  It’s all her fault - she wrecked everything with this stupid game.    

She examines the table.  Daryl couldn’t have set her up better if he tried.  She know she can easily win, but for once in her life she feels brave enough to take a chance.  Bending over, she lines up a shot and taps the 8 ball into the side pocket.

“Oops.  You win,” she breathes, turning to see him gripping his cue tightly.  He takes a step closer.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, gruffly.

“What?”

“That I can have  whatever I want?”

He’s so close now her backside bumps against the table.  The way he’s walking toward her makes it hard to stand.

“Yes,” she sighs.  His hands come to rest on the green felt at either side of her hips, effectively trapping her in place.

He swallows hard, staring at her bare shoulder and blushing scarlet.  She licks her lips and waits for him to speak.

“I want… you. ”

When he finally meets her eyes, she can barely contain the joyful chuckle that threatens to bubble up from her throat.  She wants to tell him she wants him too, but decides she’s had enough of talking.  She tilts her face towards his and stands still while he works up the courage to kiss her.

The warm brush of lips on hers is heavenly and sweet for all of a second, before his arms tighten around her waist and his tongue slips into her mouth.  She feels her insides drop and a fresh wave of arousal rush through her.  

Daryl is not a great kisser, but what he lacks in finesse he makes up for in enthusiasm.  She tries to show him what she likes, slow his frantic licking and sucking.  He tastes like warm beer and honey melon, savoury and sweet.  Her hands come up to cradle his head, earning her a soft moan when her thumbs brush against his ears.

He pulls away after a long while, breathing hard, and traces the straps of her tank top with his thumbs.  Her breath hitches when he runs a finger reverently along one shoulder and across her collarbone before surging forward to place wet kisses everywhere he touches.  Placing a hand on his chest she hops up on the table, then coaxes him forward to stand between her legs.

He is hot and hard pressing right up against her.  It makes her head spin.  Kissing isn’t enough.  She wants to feel him, _all_ of him, smooth and rigid in her hands.   See what he looks like when he comes.  No fantasy in her bunk at night can compare to this.  His mouth descends on the sensitive skin of her neck and she makes a strangled noise, shifting her hips more firmly against him, desperate for friction and release.

Daryl responds immediately, grasping at her hips and bucking back, causing her eyes to slam shut.  

“Probably shouldn’t do this,” he mutters in her ear, but his hips keep surging forward, pushing her further onto the table.  She pushes back, feels her breasts connect with his chest.

“Why  not ?”

Even as she asks the question the reasons are already rattling off in her lust addled mind.  It’s dangerous.  They could be attacked, by walkers or people.   It’s been so long since she’s had sex she’s sure reasonably sure she’ll be a disappointment.  Most frightening of all, she could get pregnant.  There is a niggling voice in her head telling her they can’t come back from this.    


“ Shit ,” he bites out when her hands smooth down his twitching stomach to pull at his belt. “Cause we don’t have…” He trails off completely when her fingers brush the base of him.

“I trust you,” she sighs, pulling him in for another taste of his mouth.  It’s worth the risk to feel this way - at least once. 

Daryl groans against her mouth and inches his hands under the back of her shirt, tugging and pulling until she laughs and moves her hands from his pants to let him take it off her.  Her bra follows quickly, and she leans back against the hard slate.  He pauses then, taking her in, and she does the same, trying not to squirm under his gaze.  The fly of his pants is gaping open, his hair is mussed and his eyes are heavy lidded.   

His hands move up her ribcage to cup her breasts - so sensitive and responsive in her aroused state that she’s sure she can come just from his thumb brushing her nipple alone.

“You’re so  beautiful ,” he says. 

Lying there in front of him, half-naked, she feels a familiar flood of confidence and pride in herself.  She wraps her legs around his hips, squeezing him, and draws his head down to her chest.  He wastes no time licking and caressing her tits so thoroughly that she’s convinced she must have soaked through her pants.

“ Please , Daryl,” she moans, arching her back to press her breast further into his wet mouth.  He moans back, the sound vibrating against her flesh in a way that makes her body hum like a live wire. 

Then he’s tearing away from her and shedding his clothing like his skin is on fire.  She kicks savagely at her boots and pulls her feet up to the edge of the table, lifting her hips to shove her pants and ratty underwear to the floor.  Carol is self-conscious for all of three seconds until the cooler air of the room makes her aware of just how hot and wet she is.  She doesn’t care what she looks like, she just knows she’ll die if Daryl isn’t sliding inside her immediately.

When he turns back to her, his eyes widen even as his hands slide up her thighs.  He is sweaty and hard,  gorgeous in the candlelight for all his tan lines and faded scars.  He’s Daryl, and she wants him more than she's ever wanted a man.  She sits up and kisses him deeply, unable to keep her hands off his body - running them across the corded muscles of his back and shoulders, the jut of his hip bones, the firm flesh of his arms.  His hands are everywhere too, heating her up like a fever dream.  

Her hands stutter, tangled in his damp hair when he reaches down and tentatively swipes his thumb down the length of her.  She’s so wet the digit slips in the slickness and he gasps into her neck.

“ Jesus , Carol.”

She sighs when he lays her back against the green felt.  He grips her hips and slides her closer, propping her up on the bank of the table and spreading her legs.  His head tilts as he slowly slides a finger inside her.  She’s swollen and aching for it, letting out a whimper when he moves it in and out, experimentally. Then, to her shock, he pulls his hand away and sucks on his fingers with his eyes closed, clearly savouring her taste.  

When he finally cradles her thighs against his hips with strong arms and glides himself into her, thick and hard and  perfect , she thinks her heart is going to burst.  She feels nothing but delicious fullness and an urge to move.  Daryl stops and pants above her, sweat breaking out across his collarbone and forehead.          

“Okay?” he chokes out.

She nods her head frantically, biting her lip.  He looks down between their bodies to the point of their joining and stares hard, pulling out slowly before pushing back in.  He pins her with a look so passionate and desperate that she follows his gaze back down to their hips.  Her jaw drops open when she watches his cock, shiny from her wetness, plunge deep inside her.

Never in her life has Carol come just from penetration, but she’s so worked up she can feel her orgasm building with each of Daryl’s controlled thrusts.  The position is awkward, and she can feel her lower back protesting at the strain of keeping her legs wrapped around him, but the angle inside is close to perfect, so she grits her teeth and hangs on, gripping his forearms.

Neither of them can help the little cries and moans that grow louder every minute, or the slap of flesh when their bodies collide.  The sound of their coupling drives Carol further to the edge, her legs falling apart wider than she ever thought possible. 

Daryl is sweating in earnest now, tiny salty drops raining down on her chest and belly.  Her head falls to the side as the pressure inside builds to heights she’s never been able to reach on her own.  She gasps at the sight of them in the wall mirror, the banner of Coors Light partially obstructing Daryl’s face.  From the glass she can see the way his hips grind against her from behind, the dip of his spine cast in shifting shadow, the way the muscles of his thighs and ass clench as he fucks her.  

Her stomach twitches violently, but she can’t tear her eyes off the mirror, until he turns his head and meets her gaze in it.  She starts to shake.

“That’s it, Carol,” he croons, still staring at her, thrusting with pride and confidence.  “Come for me.”

And she does - back arching clear off the table, trembling with pleasure all over.  

Dimly she hears his string of curses and feels him pull away, spilling himself on her hip and the green felt with a loud grunt.  He falls half on her, sticky and hot, catching his breath.  She kisses his forehead and sighs.  


 

* * *

The next week at the prison is frustrating.  Petty bickering breaks out over shower privileges and more Council meetings are scheduled to resolve the disputes.  Judith comes down with a cold that leaves the poor girl stuffed up and irritable, inconsolable unless Carol is jostling her in her arms.  

There’s no time to process what happened in the bar.  Daryl has been busy with fence repair and hunting, but he smiles shyly and blushes every time they lock eyes across the yard. 

If it weren’t for the ache in her back, Carol could almost believe it didn’t happen at all.  The most remarkable thing about the whole unexpected experience, and the thing that had her giggling most of the way home (in his vest) was the fact that it was so damn  good .  Better than she ever could have dreamed.

She’s on laundry duty again this evening, after  finally getting Jude to sleep, when she hears the unmistakable sound of a bike.  She peeks her head around the sheets blowing on the line to find Daryl.  A storm is coming in from the East, darkening the sky.  He calls to her over the sound of the engine.  

“Wanna play some pool?”

She grins. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked. Thanks for reading!


End file.
